


cat

by luxeberries



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Jaskier | Dandelion, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Titles, Light Angst, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, because who would i be without it, but he Hates that, ish? jaskier is very caring, jaskier is also pining but this is, oh my God there is a tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxeberries/pseuds/luxeberries
Summary: Why hasn't Cat faded from his bloodstream? Are his veins still blackened too? Is his skin still paler than his usual pallor?It dawns on him when he reaches the stables;Jaskier's never seen him like this.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 421





	cat

**Author's Note:**

> okay. this one gave me so much shit. it was originally part of a fic im still working on and That is a Whole Other Thing but we get there when we get there. I've changed this so many goddamned times.
> 
> take this soft shit and go

The nightwraith he'd been asked to dispatch wasn't a problem. He slays it quickly, burns the remains with Igni in a controlled space so he doesn't start a fucking forest fire. He expects his night vision to fade as normal, but even after he finds Roach a couple hundred yards away, it hasn't. Something's wrong.

Now, summer has started to show its colours, which includes the earlier rise of the big fuck off bright fire in the sky. Which means he needs to leave before he burns his fucking eyes. "Fuck," He grumbles and tugs his cloak over his face. Roach can lead herself back to the town, she's a smart mare and Geralt is very grateful for that once he can't keep his eyes on the path anymore. He feels a migraine coming on. He needs to get inside, needs to just bury himself under furs and stay there for a while. He needs to figure out what went wrong. Why hasn't Cat faded from his bloodstream? Are his veins still blackened too? Is his skin still paler than his usual pallor? They must be which is... not desirable. He'll have to collect his payment later: he'll surely be shunned out of town like this otherwise. 

It dawns on him when he reaches the stables;

Jaskier's never seen him like this.

Somehow, over the couple of years he's known Jaskier, he's managed to hide the effects of his potions out of fear that the bard will finally, finally get some sense of self-preservation and run. 

He reaches the stables quickly and he seriously debates just sleeping in there, but for once the stench of the stables burns his nose and he can't be in there any longer than it takes to settle Roach in. Geralt has strong senses anyway, but this is torture. Why the fuck did they have to be in a town? The stone path is too loud under his boots. Something stings his eyes, and he realises the sun is rearing its head over the horizon at the point where its light spreads across it and it glows far too much. Jaskier would call it beautiful. In fact, he probably is as he wakes from a peaceful slumber just to gawk at it. The door to the inn creaks as it opens, but the stairs don't help his predicament. Why is everything in this place so fucking creaky? 

As he predicted, Jaskier is busy admiring the sunrise when he clambers into the room and gracefully faceplants onto the bed, cloak tugged tightly over his face. Maybe he'll just go downstairs and let Geralt ride this out. Maybe, just maybe, Jaskier will not be Jaskier for a while and do something he would never do; leave an injured Witcher alone. 

"Geralt, my dear, you're getting grot on the sheets," Jaskier says. Geralt groans into the pillow and bats a hand at him. "Is something wrong? Are you hurt? Or just tired, perhaps?" He hears quiet, barefooted steps approaching him. "Geralt?" 

He wills himself to speak and it takes an immense amount of effort to say, "Cat." 

Jaskier's quiet as he tries to decipher what he means. "Oh, I see," He says slowly. More footsteps, then the hissing of curtains closing. "Is that any better?" 

He peeks his head to see. There's still enough light to irritate his eyes, but he wants to burrow into the pillow less. He nods. "That's good, that's good..." Jaskier speaks softly. "Can you tolerate sitting up, so I can take your armour off? Honestly, Geralt, you didn't even remove your swords..." He sounds concerned and Geralt knows the exact face he's pulling, knows he's worrying his lip and fiddling with his fingers. It's not often that something goes wrong with his potions. It's happened once before with Jaskier. He'd forgotten white honey and he'd been in pain and vomiting, with Jaskier holding his hair back. He'd fussed over him so much Geralt ended up having to find a way to soothe him instead while he emptied his stomach- which may happen yet again since he doesn't have any fucking white honey right now. The ingredients have been lacking for a while and he's completely out of honeysuckle- I should head to White Orchard soon... 

He doesn't like seeing Jaskier so helpless and concerned. Even now, he fidgets with his clothing rubbing the fabric of his chemise between his finger and thumb. But the idea of getting up pains him. Jaskier huffs softly. He feels the bed dip, then a hand on his hood. He grunts. "Geralt, come on," He sounds impatient, but there's worry in there too. "You can't just lay there all day..." He sounds defeated already, knowing that Geralt isn't going to move, doesn't want to, doesn't have the strength. 

Jaskier moves his fingers to the hem of his hood. 

He shakes his head and turns away. Jaskier retracts his hand and rubs his back instead. "Can I at least get a look at you?" 

Geralt shakes his head again. "It makes my skin paler-" 

"You're always pale-" 

"And my eyes- they... turn black. Whites and everything." 

"Because it helps you see in the dark, yes. I figured."

"Veins too," He adds for good measure. Damn Jaskier for being so fucking insistent. 

"Geralt, it's only me-"

Exactly. 

"You're not going to scare me away. Not with this."

What if it does? What if he runs? What then? 

When Geralt makes no move, Jaskier settles against the pillows, laying with him. "Alright, you don't have to show me- ever if that's what you need, but... you could never scare me off, and I need you to understand that. Nothing you could do would get rid of me."

And that's true, isn't it? Jaskier's seen him at his worst. He's seen him covered in selkimore vicersa, and the mud and shit of a town's river on a contract for drowners. Wherever Geralt had snarled, Jaskier, even when that snarl was directed at him, never ran - he only yelled back, or placed grounding hands on Geralt's shoulders, prodding him for the real problem. Even when they'd first met, Jaskier had been beaten by elves, punched by Geralt, and yet there he was, following Geralt and Roach on shoes not meant for the road. 

He's not going anywhere. 

Geralt peels his hood back and faces Jaskier, bracing himself for him to bolt. 

But he doesn't run. 

No, he smiles- just a small thing. "Thank you." Lute-calloused fingers stroke over his temple. "Would... you wouldn't want me to write a song about this, would you?" Geralt shakes his head. The very thought stirs anxiety in his stomach. People would hate him more if they knew. "Alright. Anything my mind comes up with will stay in there." Geralt grasps Jaskier's wrist and squeezes, hoping he understands what he means. Jaskier grips his hand with his spare one and just holds it. "C'mon, sit up, let's take all this off." 

He removes his sword belt and Jaskier makes a move to take off his chestplate, but he grabs his wrist to stop him. "Alright," He says quietly. "Do you want something to eat?" His hands fidget in his lap. Geralt places his chestplate on the bed, moves to the pieces on his arms and Jaskier takes the first opportunity to do something, and takes the armour piece to place it on the table instead. 

"Just some bread would be fine." He's starting to get hungry, but the very thought of eating brings a faint nauseating feeling to his stomach. 

"As you wish," He ducks out the room, shutting the door with a quiet click behind him. Geralt takes the opportunity to rub his eyes and just hold his head in his hands. His head throbs, his eyes sting, everything hurts and he's tired. Oh, he's so tired. It would be so easy to just fall back on the bed and sleep. He just needs to get this fucking armour off and he can, but a there's a knot too tight for him to release on his gauntlet. He tries at it again, gives up after a particularly frustrated groan, and tries its twin piece. The rest of his armour comes off without issue and he drops it to the floor with a thud . The more he tries to undo the knot on his gauntlet, the more frustrated he gets so he just gives up and flops back against the pillows. They're thin and shit but it's something. 

Jaskier comes back in with a plate of bread- it clinks against the bedside table when he sets it down. "Stuck?" He asks. Geralt hums, only mildly embarrassed. He sits on the edge of the bed and grabs his arm, inspecting the gauntlet. He tests the knot, and after a moment of pulling, gripping the lace with his nails, it comes apart. "Ta-da!" He speaks quietly still. "Freedom at last." 

He only manages a few bites of his bread until he feels the ghost feeling of bile in his throat. When he sets the half eaten bread slice back down, Jaskier starts to worry the inside of his cheek. It's making Geralt feel off: it's uncomfortable how concerned the bard looks. "Stop doing that," He grunts and gestures for him to sit down. He's been hovering. "I just have a migraine, a bit of nausea- it's nothing." 

"Oh please, Geralt, it's not nothing, normally you're like a wolf stuffing your maw with food." Geralt gives him a disapproving look. He lies back against the pillows, but a stream of light from the gap in the curtains blinds his vision and he tucks his cloak over his face, cursing. Jaskier moves to sit by his head, a small distance between them, blocking the sun. He props an elbow against the pillows to cradle his chin. His other hand hesitantly reaches for Geralt's cheek.

You've never once been reluctant to touch me.

He's scared, isn't he? 

Jaskier's thumb strokes over the blackened veins under his pale skin. Eyes closing, he lets out a trembling sigh. The hand moves to his forehead, and Geralt laughs softly when Jaskier places the back of his hand it. "Why are you checking for a fever?" He rasps, "I can't get sick."

Jaskier blushes and cards his fingers through his hair instead. "You look ill, my friend. It's just... instinct I suppose."

"I don't have that instinct," He can't stop himself from saying. 

Jaskier smiles. "Well, that's alright because I don't get sick often -" 

"That's not what I meant," he says, drowsily. 

"I know..." He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, strokes over that line again and again. "I just don't want you to feel bad for things that aren't your fault."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he shuffles closer and presses his forehead to Jaskier's hip. Caressing his cheek, Jaskier shifts down and lays on his back, pulling Geralt to rest on his belly. It's warm- Jaskier's warm. He inhales deeply, welcoming the scent of chamomile, wood oil, and the quill ink he uses. For a moment, he forgets about the pressure behind his eyes and focuses on Jaskier's fingers soothing his temples. Like this, pressed against him, Geralt can feel how Jaskier's heart works slightly faster than the norm. He tries to ignore it, along with his own. Instead, he hears, feels, Jaskier hum. It makes his chest rumble. His eyelids grow heavy and he hums happily even Jaskier's short, manicured nails scratch behind his ear which makes the muscles under his cheek clench with a short laugh. It's fond. Somehow, that's worse than hearing Jaskier's quick heartbeat- hearing such a genuine, loving laugh. He should move, he should leave. But, oh he's so tired and Jaskier is so comfortable and he's started to sing quietly and there's a smile in there and... and he's never felt so calm, so safe. 

He hears, "Summer hasn't been good to you so far, huh?" 

He thinks, you're here. 

And he's out. 

-

When he wakes later that day, he's wrapped securely in Jaskier's arms as he snuffles into Geralt's hair. A strange feeling, one that's slowly becoming familiar, settles in his chest. 

He slips out of bed, out of Jaskier's arms despite how warm his touch is, and heads to the stables. 

He curses himself for being so pliant under the influence of his potions, and vows for it to never happen again. 

(It will).


End file.
